Guilt Relieved
by frickangel
Summary: Even geniuses need help figuring out matters of the heart—especially from one special agent. Implied P/O; mostly FatherSon bond. One shot.


**Title**: Guilt Relieved

**Fandom**: Fringe

**Author**: frickangel { frickangel[dot]livejournal[dot]com }

**Pairing**: Implied P/O, but mostly focused on Walter and Peter's father-son relationship

**Spoilers/Time line**: Up to Season 2 Episode 14 - 'The Bishop Revival'

**Disclaimer**: Don't own. Don't know. Don't I wish.

**Summary**: Even geniuses need help figuring out matters of the heart—especially from one special agent. My take on why Peter was soaking wet at the end of the episode and what transpired just before that last scene. One shot.

**A/N**: Almost two years of a writing-sabbatical and I think I'm ready to dip into the pool again. I'm hoping I haven't lost it.

**Warning: **Un-beta'd.

* * *

--

'_And no, to answer your question, I'm not proud of it.'_

--

.

Maybe it was a written rule of the world: bad lighting and loud music are a must in every bar in Boston. Not because it created the mood of mystery, but rather it was to cloak those despairing in their own world of guilt and troubles.

Like he was.

Taking a deep breath and twirling the beer bottle by its long neck, Peter Bishop focused on the swirling brew within its glass cage. Round and round it went, always in the same direction with nowhere else to go, which was exactly how he felt at the moment.

Trapped.

He took another swig of his drink, releasing it from captivity and into a dungeon of misery.

"Snap out of it, Bishop," he whispered to himself before raising the empty bottle at the bartender—a universal signal that everyone knew. Looking down at the bar table, he focused on the polished cracks of the wood, the deep mahogany glossy beneath the dim illumination. As the fresh drink made a dull thud on the hard table and the used discarded, Peter felt a presence fill the empty stool by his side.

He prayed it wasn't another lonesome soul looking for companionship.

He had had enough offers for the night.

Turning them down was oddly against his nature. But he was not in the mood—not tonight. Not since...

"Olivia?" He turned at the blonde agent who was now by his side. "How'd you..." he stopped mid-sentence and decided against questioning her powers of deduction, "Never mind."

"Hi to you, too," she smiled and nodded, completely professional. But he could sense the air of purpose upon her, knowing that she had something on her mind to release.

Humouring the FBI agent, Peter tipped his bottle at her and took a mouthful of the cold beer, "Hi," he finally replied.

The pause of unease passed between the two unlikely partners in justice and science, allowing the silence to be filled by the mindless chatter of those surrounding them. Strange noises from the strangers around.

The bartender loomed closer, and Olivia politely shook her head indicating that she was here on business—there was no pleasure involved. "Look, Peter..."

"Liv, I'm going to sit here and pretend that you chanced upon me because you too were here for a drink to drown that unsettling feeling that my father willingly killed someone."

She opened her mouth to counter him, but Peter looked away straight ahead, staring at the multitude of coloured bottles that were decked upon the shelves.

The beer felt good down his throat.

"Double scotch please," she ordered and the bartender nodded once before scurrying off to prepare her request.

He was halfway through his drink before Olivia's arrived and she took a sip, laid it back on the bar, and let her fingers danced across the glass cup. No words came upon his mind, which was mostly because he wasn't in the mood to think of any.

"How is he?"

Peter bit the inside of his cheek, his way of reminding himself that not everything needed a sarcastic comeback. "Astrid took him home earlier. He hasn't said anything since talking to you and Broyles." Swallowing hard and finally turning to her, he blinked, "Hasn't said anything to me."

Olivia didn't react, or give any indication that she would, but gave her undivided attention to him, something that made Peter somewhat uncomfortable.

What was it that Walter said?

_'**You think she will call me Dad?****'**_

"That's what's troubling you?" Olivia gently prodded and sat up straighter.

In an odd moment of epiphany, Peter had realised why he was in such a foul mood that led him to this very moment. It wasn't because he was questioning his father's moral compass, but rather the fact that for the first time in a long time, it was Walter's turn to be truly angry at his son.

Angry at Peter.

_'**She's**** just what you need. Someone who can see right through you.****' **_

He refused to admit it though and responded to Olivia's query by downing more of his chosen poison. "If you're thinking it's childish that I'm more concerned about my father's disappointment with me rather than what he has done, then go right ahead.

And for the record, I think that Nazi bastard deserved it."

With her FBI training of total and utter emotional control, Olivia looked down at her feet before glancing at Peter with a small smile etched on her face.

He frowned at her and forgot to partake of his drink for effect, "It wasn't a joke."

"I hoped not," she answered and leaned casually against the bar, a few strands of her hair escaping from the ponytail but was hastily tucked behind an ear. "I was just remembering how more than a year ago, you were this close to leaving us," she used her forefinger and thumb to illustrate a small amount of space, just to give her line more impact. "If I recall correctly, your exact words were: 'Guilt relieved' before you nearly walked out of our lives."

If she was trying to help ease him, she was doing a terrible job.

"I hope you also recall how I was later kidnapped and tortured for information that I hadn't even known I had."

"My point is, Peter," she continued, completely ignoring his snark, "is that since then, you've grown—dare I say it—quite... fond of Walter, haven't you?"

His brain came to a complete stop as he stared into her green eyes.

_'**She's ****just what you need. Someone who can see right through you.****' **_

Slowly, Peter's fingers wrapped around the emerald green bottle; his fingertips played with its cold beads of perspiration while he sought for an answer.

There was none.

"Now, that is something you can be proud of."

It was more complicated than that. Too many years of neglect and burdens had taken its toll upon the Bishop household, "I think this maybe the straw that broke the camel's back. There's a lot of hate involved, Liv."

She inched closer to him, her eyes narrowing slightly and studying him, "But there's also a lot of love."

What was she saying?

"I... it's just that," Peter stuttered and stumbled through the messy excuse that was half-formed. "Me and Walter were... is—."

Attention thrown onto the rocky road of his concentration, Peter was taken aback by the sudden hold of her hand upon his.

He flinched.

She didn't.

His breathing slowed and the wave of calm enveloped him. Lifting his eyes to her piercing gaze, Peter found himself almost breathless. The world around him had dissolved into absolute nothingness.

Where were they again?

He could only lock on her face while he felt her fingers weave through his and slowly unravelled them into an open palm. "Here," she said, as the feather light touch of a crumpled piece of paper jostled him back to reality.

He recognised it as a torn page from her notebook, "What's—."

"Eric Franko's address," she answered matter-of-factly, her soft touch still upon his arm—a strange source of comfort for him. "In case you forgot."

The edges of uncertainty grasped at him, trying to draw him back into the dark, cold despair, reminding him that he once felt comfortable there. It beckoned at his return into its cold embrace.

"Go."

Her familiar strong voice brought him back again.

Back to her.

He examined her writing: two lines that guided him to the way of a resolve. Turning back to her, he smiled and chuckled softly before squeezing her hand in an understood sign of gratitude. Picking himself up, Peter took hold of his coat, dug through his pockets, and left enough money for his and her drinks.

Twisting through the crowd while avoiding the partygoers and mourners, he did a sudden take of a hundred and eighty, and looked at her.

She was looking back.

"Hey, Liv," he called out over the chaos and disorder of the bar.

"Yeah?" she was smiling wider now, obviously pleased with herself.

_'**You think she will call me Dad?****'**_

He laughed and took a slight bow, "You look lovely, Agent Dunham." Flashing a crooked smile, he was unsure if she understood the cryptic message. Peter didn't care; it was enough that he did.

"It's raining outside," she simply answered, her smile never fading. "You're going to get wet."

He shrugged and risked stretching he hands outward, hopefully not hitting anyone, "So be it."

Dashing out the door, Peter hastily threw on his coat and looked left and right. Beneath the blessings of the night skies, he tried shrinking into his heavy coat, shying away from the heavy drops of nature's shower. His clothes were beginning to soak through, and the heavy material stuck like wet clay to his skin, but he ignored it.

Right now, he had just one thought on his mind.

He wondered if he had enough money to redeem his grandfather's books.

.

.

.

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**THE END**

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Thanks for reading.

Comments and constructive criticism are more than welcome.


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